


These Roads We Take

by rw_eaden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s02e11 Playthings, Episode: s02e22 All Hell Breaks Loose, Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, First Kiss, Frottage, Hell Trauma, Implied Bottom Dean, Implied Top Sam, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incest, M/M, Self-Worth Issues, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 00:22:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12876216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rw_eaden/pseuds/rw_eaden
Summary: Sam was warned, but some things just seem inevitable.





	These Roads We Take

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Wincest Writing Challenge](http://wincestwritingchallenge.tumblr.com/)! Check 'em out!

Despite all the things Sam’s seen and done in his life, he’s never put much stock in tarot readings. It’s easy if you know how to spin them, considering most people can’t be bothered to learn the card themselves and there are at least a dozen books in any “occult” section in even the most mundane stores these days for those who do care to learn. Anyone with a deck of cards and a showman’s personality can read the future, it’s spotting the real deal that’s usually the issue. Most witches don’t bother with it. Some Wiccans make their money doing it. It’s that bridge between the two, the witch who passes as a friendly old-world healer, that you have to worry about. Those ladies (sometimes men, too, but not as much) give bad readings and shill their crap. They’ll cast nasty curses and charge for their removal. It’s a sick racket, but it’s probably as old as humanity. Still, every once in awhile, it’s Sam’s job to shake them up and let them know someone’s on to them. 

That’s why Sam’s in a tiny house turned apothecary in the middle of Wichita, sitting across from a small woman with faded pink streaks in her hair called Belinda. It’s been a slow week for both of them, but that’s probably about to change.  Belinda makes him shuffle the cards and he sets them back down on the table. She takes a deep breath before cutting the deck and drawing the top three cards face up. She tries to hide the slight intake of breath but it still draws Sam’s attention more than the cards in front of him; the Queen of Swords, Ten of Swords, and Death. 

“You’re approaching a crossroads,” she says. Sam does his best not to snort a laugh at that. “But the cards urge you to move with your head and not your heart. If you don’t there’s the potential for great pain in your future.” 

Sam does snort at that. Belinda snoots him a sour look, her nose wrinkling as her lips turn upwards. “You disagree?” Belinda asks. 

“Well, it’d help if I knew what kind of decision I should be making with my head, don’t you think.” 

Belinda draws another card, the Two of Cups. “Romance,” she says flatly. 

Sam rolls his eyes. “That’s great but I’m not exactly in a position to worry about romance at the moment.”

“No?” Belinda asks. “What about the young man you came in with?” 

“He’s my brother,” Sam balks. 

“Oh. Well,” Belinda shifts in her seat, staring down at the cards. A tinge of pink colors her cheeks as she taps her long nails against the cloth covered table. “Perhaps then…” she sighs, licking her lips, “regardless, there will be a decision in your future that you must take caution in making. If you don’t the effects will be long-lasting and they will be painful for you.” 

“Involving romance, right?” Sam can just barely keep the smarm out of his voice. 

“Involving partnership.” 

“Right.” 

Belinda levels him a look that says ‘why the hell are you even here if you don’t believe’ but what she says is: “your five minutes are up. Would you like to pay for another reading?” 

“Nah, I think I’m good.” 

“Well, if you change your mind, we’ll always be right here.” 

Belinda lets him back into the main room and takes her place back behind the counter. Dean’s flitting around the shelves, picking up the trinkets and rolling them between his fingers. 

“Dude, look,” Dean says, tipping chin toward the shelving behind him. The shelf is lined with red, black, and white candles, all in the shape of penises. 

“Really, Dean?” 

“What?” Dean laughs, “could be fun. You never know when you’ll need a dick candle.” 

Sam rolls his eyes and walks out of the store, Dean following behind. It takes them about five minutes on the road before Dean speaks. “Anything we gotta worry about in there?” 

“Nah. I think she was full of crap.” 

Sam doesn’t put too much stock into the reading, or into the fortune teller’s insinuation. It happens all the time, that people mistake Sam and Dean for lovers and not brothers. It shouldn’t mean anything, but Sam would be lying if he were to say that it didn’t twinge in his guts every time they had to admit it wasn’t true. 

\-----

Sam’s drunk. His mind’s a whirlwind and he wishes it could just end. He’s useless. This stupid gift doesn’t help anyone, it just causes more problems. His dad knew it. He knows it. He’s a freak and a monster and it’s only a matter of time before he really messes up. He couldn’t save Ava. He couldn’t save that lawyer. He probably can’t even save himself. 

“Don’t ask that of me,” Dean says. His voice nearly cracks, but his eyes betray him, though. He’d probably have an easier time of it if Sam asked him to cut off his own leg. 

“Dean, please. You have to promise me,” Sam says. 

“No,” Dean says, his voice barely a whisper. His fingers tighten around Sam’s wrists and Sam flexes his own hands in Dean’s jacket. “I can’t do that.” 

Sam looks up at him and he swears he can see his heart breaking. “Why not?” Sam whispers, “why not? I’m a freak. I’m pathetic. I’m not good.”

Dean’s hands are at the sides of his face in an instant and Dean drops to his knees. “Because I can’t, Sam. I can’t do that to you. Don’t make me. Please don’t make me.” He’s staring at Sam with wet eyes, deep and imploring, begging almost, for Sam to understand. 

Sam leans into Dean’s touch. “I’m a freak, Dean.” 

“No, you’re not. You’re just figuring it out.” 

“I’m sick.” 

“There’s nothing sick about you.” 

“But I - “ he doesn’t want to say it. He knows he shouldn’t say it. He knows it will fuck all of this up, so much more than he could ever hope. Dean will leave or he’ll yell or he’ll panic. But maybe, it might just make him decide Sam’s right about this. 

In the end, he doesn’t say it. He surges forward until his lips connect with Deans. He half misses and it’s more than a little sloppy, but he still goes for it. 

When he pulls back, Dean is staring at him, not in horror or disgust, but… disbelief? 

“Sammy,” Dean whispers. 

“See,” Sam says, “I’m sick.” 

“If that makes you sick,” Dean says, “I guess I’m sick too.” Dean leans in this time, capturing Sam’s lips in a bruising kiss. Sam struggles to keep upright but ultimately falls back on the bed, pulling Dean with him. 

They writhe like that for a while, trading kisses with tongue and teeth while Sam paws at Dean’s clothes with clumsy hands. And then Dean pulls back and Sam’s left cold and wanting. 

“We can’t,” he says. 

Sam whines. 

“You’re drunk, Sam. We can’t.” 

Sam reaches out to him, but Dean just kisses his knuckles before stepping back. “Get some sleep. We’ll uh. In the morning.” 

They don’t talk about it in the morning. 

\----

Sam’s pissed. He’s been sulking for the better part of the day, up in one of Bobby’s spare rooms, while Dean and Bobby talk. As grateful as he knows he should be, Dean shouldn’t’ve sold his soul. He’s not going to yell, though. He’s not going to tell Dean how stupid it was or how wrong, he’s just going to find a way to get Dean out of it. It’s the least he could do. 

There’s a knock at the bedroom door and Dean walks in, eyes downcast. He’s uncharacteristically sheepish like he’s expecting to get chewed out at any moment. Sam’s not going to do it, though. He knows it’s not going to change what’s done. 

“Hey, Sam,” Dean says. 

“Hey.” 

Dean doesn’t move, so Sam takes the initiative to draw him across the room by his wrist, setting him down at the foot of the bed. “We’ll figure it out,” Sam says. 

Dean nods but says nothing. He doesn’t need to. His eyes are still red and glassy from earlier, his cheeks stained with tear tracks. He’s terrified, that much is easy to see. Sam wishes he could take it all away, right then and there. 

He slings an arm around Dean’s shoulder, kissing his temple. Dean leans into him, nuzzling into his chest. He strokes Dean’s back and before he knows it they’re kissing again, this time slow and deliberate, pressing the words they can’t say into each other’s skin. 

_ I’m sorry _ says Dean’s tongue as it slides across Sam’s own.  _ It’s alright _ says Sam’s nose when he nuzzles into the soft skin behind Dean’s ear.  _ I love you _ they both say when they tumble into the bed, fingers drifting across each other’s scarred skin. The rut together, their clothing pull haphazardly out of the way, until they’re both shuddering and gasping on each other’s names. 

They don’t talk about it. 

They don’t talk about it when it happens in the Impala two weeks later or in the motel shower a week after that. They don’t talk about it when Sam’s cock is buried inside his brother that Christmas. They don’t talk about it the night before Dean’s deal comes due. They never talk about it. 

And then Dean is ripped apart by hellhounds. 

\----

They say death changes people but they never really say anything about how it changes those who come back from it. Sam supposes whoever “they” are probably know nothing about resurrections, though. Once the initial shock and disbelief of Dean’s return wore off Sam hoped they could go back to something normal. Or at least as normal as their lives, as their choices could allow. 

But Dean is distant. His eyes stare off into the middle distance more often than not. He’s trying, Sam can tell, but that easy smile and smooth attitude don’t fit right anymore. It’s like a jacket that’s too small in the sleeves; it fits alright until you start to move and then you’re exposed, and Dean is desperately trying not to move too much. 

They don’t get past a heavy make-out session the night Dean comes back from Hell. He doesn’t say much, just that he’s tired and hungry and wants a bath, so Sam lets it go. Months later they haven’t gotten past heavy petting before Dean pulls away and makes excuses. He’s got a headache this time, apparently. 

“You know, if you don’t want to anymore you could just tell me,” Sam says. 

“What? No, I told you. Just a headache.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “What’s going on, Dean?” 

“I already told you,” Dean says. He’s busying himself with one of the duffle bags, re-rolling shirts that have unrolled as they’ve pulled their clothes and equipment out.

Sam sighs. “You know I can’t do anything about it if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.” 

“I already did. Now, would you leave it alone, Sam?” 

Sam stands, walking around the bed and coming up behind his brother. He sets a hand on Dean’s hip and he goes stock still under Sam’s fingertips. “Dean…” 

“Leave me alone.” 

Sam draws back, pushing his hair out of his face. “Fine. Okay, fine. I’ll leave you alone. But you gotta talk to me eventually.” 

Dean huffs and throws the t-shirt he’s holding back into the bag before stomping off to the bathroom. 

The shower starts to run and Sam pretends he doesn’t hear soft sobs over the water. 

\-----

Dean tells Sam that he remembers Hell. He doesn’t go into details, not really, but he describes the feelings. There’s shame and guilt echoing in every syllable that falls from Dean’s lips. 

“They take every good thing in your life and they ruin it,” Dean says, “every goddamn thing.” 

And Sam understands. He wants to reach out and touch, to sooth the tension building in Dean’s shoulders, but he thinks better of it. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. 

“So am I,” Dean says. He throws Sam a sad half-smile and it’s like a knife in Sam’s chest. 

He’s going to make Lilith pay if it’s the last thing he does. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated.  
> Also, you're welcome to come talk to me on [tumblr](http://marymotherofmonsters.tumblr.com/).


End file.
